Page 27 of The Beast's Broken Angel
BEAUTIFUL WEAPONS
NOAH
M y heart was still hammering from whatever the fuck had just happened in Adrian's study when Viktor burst through the door. One minute I was about to be punished, Adrian's hand sliding down my bare chest with terrifying intent, and the next we were racing toward disaster.
Medical instincts kicked in as Adrian's convoy sped through London toward the still-burning nightclub.
I inventoried the emergency kit Viktor had thrust into my hands, checking supplies against the mental list of likely injuries.
Burns, smoke inhalation, shrapnel wounds, blunt trauma.
The familiar checklist steadied my racing thoughts, gave me something concrete to focus on besides the lingering ghost of Adrian's touch on my skin.
“What's the casualty count?” I asked Viktor, who was driving like a man possessed, weaving the massive Range Rover through traffic with terrifying skill.
“Five confirmed dead. At least a dozen injured,” he replied, eyes never leaving the road. “Dominic took shrapnel trying to evacuate staff.”
Adrian sat beside me in the back seat, his phone pressed to his ear, issuing commands in a voice I barely recognised.
Gone was the man who'd pinned me against his body moments earlier, whose breath had been hot against my neck, whose hands had promised things I didn't want to acknowledge.
This Adrian was something colder, more alien.
A predator calculating the most devastating response to an attack on his territory.
“Police and fire services have been managed,” Sophia informed us via speakerphone, her voice icily composed despite the hour and circumstances. “Our people established a perimeter. Harrison is handling official inquiries. Media blackout in progress.”
The casual way they discussed controlling police and media should have shocked me more than it did. But after witnessing Parker's execution, my threshold for surprise at the Calloway family's reach had significantly recalibrated.
“Footage?” Adrian demanded, the single word laden with controlled fury.
Viktor handed back a tablet, keeping one hand on the wheel as we took a corner fast enough to throw me against Adrian's side.
The momentary contact sent an unwelcome jolt through me, my body apparently not getting the memo that nearly being molested by your captor shouldn't leave you sexually confused.
“Three attackers, professionally trained,” Viktor reported as Adrian studied the security footage. “They executed the bartender first, then initiated the fire using military-grade accelerants. Not Vega's usual methodology.”
I glanced at the tablet over Adrian's shoulder, medical training already cataloguing the efficient violence displayed.
The attackers moved with coordinated precision, their methods suggesting professional training rather than street thugs.
One moved differently than the others—more contained, more disciplined in his movements.
“Former military,” I said without thinking. “The one in the grey jacket. That's CQB movement pattern. Close-quarters battle training.”
Adrian's head turned toward me, mismatched eyes sharp with sudden interest. “You recognise military combat techniques?”
I shrugged uncomfortably. “My dad was Royal Marines before he went to shit. Used to drill me and my brother in basic self-defence—before he buggered off and left us. I recognise the stance.”
Something shifted in Adrian's assessment of me, a recalculation I couldn't quite read.
Before he could respond, the Range Rover rounded a corner, and The Raven's Nest appeared through the windshield.
Smoke billowed from shattered windows, emergency lights painting the night in strobing red and blue.
The club's elegant facade was now a blackened skeleton, flames still licking through blown-out windows on the upper floors.
Adrian went preternaturally still beside me, the violence to come gathering around him like an electrical storm. The hair on my arms stood up, animal instinct recognising a predator about to strike.
“Wolves, not Vegas,” he said quietly, more to himself than to us. “Interesting escalation.”
The vehicle had barely stopped before Adrian was out, striding toward the club with Viktor flanking him. I grabbed the medical kit and followed, pushing through the crowd of onlookers and emergency personnel who parted before Adrian like the Red Sea before Moses.
Inside, the club's famous main floor was a disaster zone of broken glass, charred furniture, and water damage from sprinklers and fire hoses. The smell hit me immediately—smoke, burnt plastic, and beneath it all, the unmistakable copper tang of blood. Too much blood.
The VIP section had been converted to a makeshift triage area—injured security personnel and staff lying on leather banquettes now serving as examination tables. My training took over instantly, eyes scanning for the most critical cases amidst the chaos.
Dominic's massive form lay unnaturally still on a bloodied couch at the far end, his shirt dark with blood, face pale beneath soot and grime. I moved toward him immediately, medical bag already open.
“Shrapnel wounds, second-degree burns, probable concussion,” I assessed aloud, cutting away Dominic's shirt to reveal metal fragments embedded in his muscular shoulders and chest. The wounds weren't immediately life-threatening, but blood loss and infection risk were significant concerns.
“Will he live?” Adrian asked from behind me, his voice controlled but with an undercurrent I hadn't heard before. Concern, maybe. For all his coldness, Dominic was clearly more than just an employee to him.
“Yes, but he needs proper medical attention. These fragments need to come out under sterile conditions.” I was already cleaning the wounds, assessing which pieces could be safely removed here and which would require surgical intervention.
“Do what you can here,” Adrian instructed. “We have a private medical facility prepared for when we transport him.”
I nodded, reaching for forceps to extract the larger, more accessible fragments.
Emergency training took over, my hands moving with practised surety despite the chaotic setting.
I'd treated worse in understaffed A&E departments during terror attacks and major accidents.
The location might be different, but trauma care followed the same principles anywhere.
Adrian paced nearby, phone against ear, issuing rapid commands.
His controlled rage filled the space like a physical presence while I extracted metal from Dominic's flesh.
The juxtaposition was jarring—me methodically healing while Adrian orchestrated what would undoubtedly be calculated violence in response.
“They knew exactly when to hit,” Adrian said to someone named Ramirez on the phone. “Internal leak. Find it.” His gaze met mine across Dominic's unconscious form, something unspoken passing between us amid the blood and destruction.
A strange intimacy formed in that moment—the shared understanding of the stakes, the acknowledgment that whatever had nearly happened between us in his study was now secondary to the violence surrounding us. Yet the tension remained, humming beneath the surface like a live wire.
I stabilised Dominic as best I could, administering antibiotics and painkillers from the surprisingly comprehensive kit Viktor had provided. When I was confident he could be safely moved, I turned to check the next victim, only to realise Adrian had disappeared.
Viktor noticed my questioning glance. “Mr. Calloway has gone to see the message,” he explained grimly. “You should prepare yourself. He'll want you to examine the body.”
“Body?” I repeated, though I already knew. The bartender I'd glimpsed in the security footage, executed first in the attack.
Viktor nodded toward a doorway guarded by two of Adrian's men. “Storage room. It's... not pleasant.”
The understatement of the fucking century, as it turned out .
The storage room stank of blood and burnt flesh, the bartender's body displayed grotesquely across broken liquor crates.
My gorge rose immediately, but I swallowed hard, forcing professional detachment.
I'd seen bad things in the trauma ward—car accidents, industrial injuries, gang violence—but nothing quite like this deliberate cruelty.
Adrian stood with his back to me, studying the corpse with clinical detachment. He didn't turn when I entered, but somehow seemed to register my presence anyway.
“Your medical assessment?” he asked, voice terrifyingly calm.
I approached the body, mentally retreating behind the clinical focus that had carried me through the worst trauma cases. The victim was male, mid-twenties, with multiple cutting wounds to the torso and a severed carotid artery that would have been the ultimate cause of death.
“Time of death approximately ninety minutes ago,” I reported automatically, examining the wounds with the detached professionalism that allowed doctors and nurses to function in the face of horror.
“Multiple cutting wounds to the torso first, then the throat cut as the final act. The carving was done ante-mortem—he was alive during most of it. The severed carotid was what ultimately killed him.”
The message carved into the bartender's chest was crude but legible.
REGARDS FROM THE WOLVES.
The cutting was deep enough to expose muscle tissue in places, the edges of the wounds showing signs of the victim's heart still pumping during the mutilation.
“The Turner brothers,” Adrian said to Viktor, voice unnervingly calm. “Apparently they've decided to elevate their status. Find their operation base by morning.”
He turned to me suddenly. “You recognise this cutting style?”
I hesitated, medical assessment warring with self-preservation. Answering truthfully meant revealing knowledge no ordinary trauma nurse should possess—but lying to Adrian seemed both futile and potentially dangerous.